


I don't want anybody else

by kinpika



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: A Good Christmas Present, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fancy dinners and high class champagne, Lingerie and hotel rooms, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9066988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: What if it didn’t fit right? Could he still cancel the order? Was it too early to introduce lacy lingerie into their relationship? Marx rolled to his side, gripping his face, and almost considered searching up those ridiculous women oriented sites with terrible dating advice. It might just ease his pain.
 Never let it be said that Marx did things half-assed.





	1. when you're twenty seven and reckless

**Author's Note:**

> for ~*koi*~ who drew ryoumarx w ryouma all *wiggles eyebrows* and then marx in sexy lingerie and it kinda snowballed from there

Sometimes, Marx did not give Ryouma enough credit for just how devious the man could be. It was not so much in his actions, more in his words. Simple suggestions that were always coupled with a slight of hand, fingers brushing against the inside of Marx’s wrists and a smile, that did not bother to hide exactly what he was thinking at that moment. It was not the first time that Marx wished Ryouma to be, perhaps, more private with his thoughts, as Marx was not sure how much more he could stand.

So, Marx sits, hunched over his laptop in fear that a sibling might crash through his room and discover just what he was looking up. Even with all the private filters in the world, a morbid fear ate away at Marx, as if _someone_ would just know. As if Ryouma would know the exact effect he had on Marx, to drive him to huddling away, finding all sorts of things he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to experience yet (or if Ryouma would even consider such things).

Marx makes a note to remove any and all champagne from their date at the end of the week. Champagne had the unfortunate habit of making Ryouma giggly and suggestive, like he had been only a few days prior on their last impromptu date. He had hoped Ryouma had eaten enough to soak up the liquor, but alas, Marx was a weak, weak man. 

“By the gods,” Marx huffs, as he scrolls through another article recommending material for lingerie. As if that would make any difference, he thinks, but the images make a point, and Marx finds himself quite enamoured by the idea of Ryouma in red. 

Ah, don’t think like that. Gritting his teeth, Marx resists the urge to palm himself, and starts thinking of all things that don’t involve Ryouma. In his old age, he swore he was getting worse. Rearranging his legs, knocking the laptop around as he shifts over the covers, Marx does his best to screen through recommended sites. Ryouma had always been oddly adventurous, or maybe he was just a little more accepting of things — Marx had a sneaking suspicion that Ryouma read a lot of those health and fashion magazines that suggested positions, but he wasn’t going to enquire about that.

But the further Marx found himself in the internet, the more he wasn’t sure. Clicking his tongue, he closed another page, tapping out a quick, slightly more obscure, series of words to search. If he gifted lingerie, as per Ryouma’s vague comment, the man would surely wear the gear. Shamelessly too. And with that thought, Marx fondly remembered the time Ryouma had managed to get to his office without anyone saying a word, and removed his coat to reveal—

_bzzt—_

Marx was so thankful for mobile phones. Tearing his eyes away from his screen, to the smaller one at his side, he smiled at the name (accompanied by far too many little symbols, but that was Elise’s doing, and in Ryouma’s phone, Marx had much the same). “Waxing poetry again?” Marx says out loud, sliding the message open to reveal a very embarrassing poem.

One of these days, Ryouma would find something else to do with his time than write dirty poetry. Maybe.

Tapping out a reply, Marx fell back against his pillows, stretching his back as he went. Gods, he hadn’t even realised how much time he had spent looking up those sorts of things. Even going so far as to price express shipping, or discreet adult shops in the area. Something, _anything_ , for them to have a memorable night together before the year broke. After the week, Marx would be back in Vindam for an undisclosed amount of time, likely working through the New Year. 

Ryouma types back an almost immediate response, and Marx smiles. It was not the first time that Marx had wondered how Ryouma had held onto a job when he spent more time texting than what he was supposed to actually do. 

>> _can’t wait 2 c u ;)_

> _Neither can I_

>> _u rady 2 get kickd out of hotel again?? hahah_

> _Ryouma…_

Marx can hear him laughing, he’s sure of it, but his face is burning, and he practically flings his phone across the bed. Running his hands through his hair, Marx lets his hands rest on either side of his face, before slowly sliding them down. Ryouma always made a fuss about receiving gifts, no matter what time of year it was — Marx distinctly remembers that one time he tried to buy Ryouma a suit. No matter what Marx got him, Ryouma would love it, and that was the hardest part. It wouldn’t matter to the man, as long as Marx was there.

And then, all at once, a lightbulb goes off in Marx’s head.

“Idiot,” he mumbles, and starts looking up his own size, and colours he had been told that suited him. Even though his face burned, as he considered gifting _himself_ in a sense to Ryouma, it did give him the slightest boost in confidence. Enough that he typed out his personal credit card number off the top of his head, finding a site that was reliable according to various other users, and forked out extra for shipping. 

As Marx receives an email saying that his order was on its way, it dawned on him what he had just bought. Slapping the lid of his laptop shut, he sits with his head in his hands, letting out a long groan. Such a fool for letting Ryouma get to him like that. What if it didn’t fit right? Could he still cancel the order? Was it too early to introduce lacy lingerie into their relationship? Marx rolled to his side, gripping his face, and almost considered searching up those ridiculous women oriented sites with terrible dating advice. It might just ease his pain.

After exactly an hour and thirty-three minutes of sulking in his room, eventually, Camilla finds him. She does not ask, and he does not tell her, but he gets a ten minute warning to dress so they could go out shopping, and Marx almost says no. He knew if he left the safety of his house, that people would know what he had done. Papers would find out, and he’d be branded a pervert, and Ryouma wouldn’t leave him (of course), but his business would be ruined. All Marx would have left is a questionable boyfriend who drank fancy champagne and liked to get them kicked out of hotel rooms, and a father who would say ‘I’m disappointed in you, Marx.’

“Whatever you are thinking, stop it, Marx.”

Blinking, Marx notes how they were now in front of a jeweller, and he did not quite remember when he had started to be a packhorse. Not that he minded, as Camilla ushered them inside, out of the snow. Typical of the Nohrian weather to start to be horrible so early in the year, and Marx reached to rub his nose, trying to warm it up, as Camilla hovered over cases. Perhaps he could simply get Ryouma a watch, and keep the lingerie for a later date. A respectable gift that wouldn’t have an opportunity to be turned down.

Unless, oh, he remembered some offhanded comment about watches as gifts. A custom or something, and Marx feels that creeping anxiety as Camilla is swooping over rings, bracelets and necklaces, eventually settling on a little charm with a dainty rope holding it. Far too early to involve jewellery into their relationship, yes? Camilla had been with her partner near two years now, from what Marx had gathered. That was perfectly acceptable. His predicament was…

“You are rather distracted. Maybe I should have brought Leon along for a conversation after all.”

Forcing a laugh, Marx rearranges the bags on his hands. “Apologies, Camilla. I have a lot on my mind.”

“So I noticed.” Taking a few bags from him, Camilla smiles just a little. “Are you shopping for someone in particular? Perhaps… that lovely man from the bar a few months back?”

Marx makes a strangled noise that he would vehemently deny making had it been anyone else, and then sighs. Camilla was far sharper than what most people gave her credit for (although he believed she almost _preferred_ it that way). That little smile never disappeared, and Marx feels his back stiffen. “I— _yes_ , I suppose I continued to see him after… that night.”

That night involving drinking with the business partners to celebrate, and ending up keeping a stool to himself for most of the night, until a man very drunkenly draped himself across Marx’s back. Ryouma should consider himself so lucky that, even inebriated, he was very charming and convincing, as had it been anyone else they wouldn’t be where they were now. Marx did not think of how the night progressed, as once upon a time he considered himself above drunken hookups. He was very wrong, of course.

“Good, I’m glad. Very few manage to sweep you off your feet.”

“He did not _sweep—_!” If Marx considered it, there was a possibility that Ryouma actually _may_ have, yet he wouldn’t tell Camilla that.

Waving her hand as if to interrupt him, Camilla’s smile had widened. Marx felt his lower lip jut out as he walked ahead. Oh, he was sure if he introduced Camilla and Ryouma, they would get along extremely well. Like a house on fire, was the saying. Ignoring of course how that was a terrifying thought, and that he may never live down anything ever again. The both of them were very into reminding him of every little embarrassing thing, and Marx wasn’t sure he wanted them to trade information.

Camilla catches up to him with such ease, linking their arms and pointing at various things in the passing windows. They only had Leon to buy for, and whilst the both of them agreed there was only so many books they could press into their younger brother, Camilla was starting to falter in finding something else. 

“Perhaps we could replace his chess set,” Marx finds himself saying, as they started into the window of the fifth book shop. “I believe some of the pieces were broken the last time the dog got in.”

“Father has already organised a custom made set.” Marx noted the certain amount of annoyance in Camilla’s voice at that. To think, father actually managed to get the jump on them for gifts. “Too bad Leon does not tell us what else he likes. As if he expects us to figure everything out.” She’s sighing, something about teenagers, and Marx laughs a little.

“Well, a board game then? That’s what his friends are into, are they not?”

“You want to encourage him to stay indoors all the time, like those friends of his?” Camilla turns to him with a raised brow, and Marx just shrugs. 

“Can you think of anything better?”

Huffing, Camilla pulls them along. No, she could not think of something better, and as they stood inside the game shop, the both of them were quite stumped. “What was the name of that ridiculous game again?” she asks aside, as they both see a free attendant. The person almost looked afraid of them, and Marx noted how they towered over most of those in the room. Or perhaps, if these people straightened their backs, they wouldn’t look quite as tall.

“I have no idea, Camilla, I just hear lots of shouting from the first floor whenever they play.”

Finally, the person comes over to them, apparently over their fear. Camilla speaks warmly, gesturing to the games on the wall, giving Marx enough time to look over the rest of the place. Maybe he could trick Ryouma into thinking that they were just going to play cards all night at the hotel. Corner of his mouth curling up as he thought about that, and imagined how Ryouma’s face would fall, Marx smothers a laugh with his hand. It would be too much that he would just give away what comes next, no doubt. There was only so much he could tease Ryouma with, he had learned.

“Do you think this is what he plays?”

Camilla holds out the box into Marx’s line of sight, and he reads over the cover. That sounded right, although he wished they had a third person here to correct them. Or one of Leon’s friends. Digging his hands in his pockets, Marx heard the attendant waffling on about refunds and exchanges, and simply raised his shoulders. “If it is the wrong one, Camilla, Leon can just change it for the right one.”

“But I would prefer to give him the right game first, Marx.”

“I know, but we don’t have anyone we can ask to check.”

Opening her mouth, as if to argue again, Camilla snaps it shut and turns to the person, saying they’d buy it. If all else failed, Leon could just come back later (although Marx had a sneaking suspicion that Leon wouldn’t no matter what as he had the slightest tendency to keep all gifts from Camilla, no matter how absurd). As they make their way out, game securely in its bag — not gift wrapped, much to Camilla’s dismay — Marx noted the time. Where they were. How the sun was starting to set, and they had wandered a little off the main street. 

Camilla noted it too, and didn’t look Marx’s way as she pointed out the adult shop a few stores down. Marx could feel the immediate burn on his cheeks, as he fondly remembered scouring the internet only hours before, and dragged Camilla in the opposite direction.

“Marx, wait!”

“No!”

“But it’s so fun to check out those places in different cities!”

“I do not need to know what is in those sorts of places, Camilla.”

Marx hears the muttered “it might make you relax”, but keeps walking. His face feels like it’s on fire, and he’s very sure it would not make him relax. It would just remind him of the payment on his credit card, listed discreetly under ‘home and bath wares’, and how he relied heavily on Ryouma to be cavalier about sex shops.

As they’re back near the car, Marx also decides that in no way was he going to introduce Ryouma and Camilla. Such a frightening thought, and he was sure there were far better friendships out there for the both of them.

Sliding in, Marx barely gets his seatbelt on when Camilla finally speaks again — not quite over her annoyance, but close enough. “Are you seeing him this weekend?”

“Seeing who this weekend?”

“The _boytoy_.” At the grimace on Marx’s face, Camilla laughs loudly. “A joke, Marx!”

“Of course.” Swings the car out into reverse as Camilla just continues to laugh, and drives on towards their home for the time. Camilla has some sense to not press him any further, but Marx can see the look on her face as she looks at his phone, and hopes she resists temptation. Such a meddling younger sibling. At least Elise had some grace to just wish him well — although he was still concerned about how she had found out that he was seeing someone. 

Oh well, he thinks, and swipes his phone out of harm’s way just to be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [BGM: (imagining marx singing) I TOUCH MYSELF BY DIVINYLS]
> 
> split it into 3 bc it flowed better
> 
> also, pls note, marx's embarrassed face is :| and his super embarrassed face is >:| and only 2 ppl in the world can tell the difference and enjoy embarrassing the fuck outta him for it
> 
> where do marx and ryouma work? idk. but they met at a bar and banged a lot. it was loud. they got kicked out of a hotel room and ryouma gave marx his number "lets do this again sometime" marx was like. holy shit.
> 
> fun fact: do u kno why marx is 27 in this? bc every damn 27 yr old i know irl goes thru this weird phase where they are suddenly a teenager again and get embarrassed over the weirdest things but also do the weirdest shit and then suddenly hit 28 and its like theyre a 50 yr old or smth idk what it is but its crazy


	2. shout loud enough for the neighbours to hear

After at least three days of mentally preparing himself, Marx sits in the hotel lobby, idly tapping his thigh. It was not like Ryouma to be late, as the man made a point of being early to nearly everything in existence. At least, Marx assumed so, and bounces his foot a little before switching legs. That didn’t exclude most other things, he thought, covering his smile. 

Or Ryouma was trying to prove a point. Scanning the crowd once more, Marx was sure he was not among whoever else was settled around the place. Maybe they should have just met at the restaurant, Marx thinks, when he checks his watch again. Would have made things far easier and given him a little more time to adjust to what clung to him under his suit.

In hindsight, it was certainly a foolish decision to wear at least what passed as underwear and the corset under his suit. The more he fidgeted, the more he was sure he could feel it shift with him. Back up in their room was the absurdly long socks and belts, along with his laptop open to the preview image. At least the bows on the side of the underwear was not visible through his suit, although Marx swore he could feel the knot dig into his hips. 

Yet this was all to make sure he wouldn’t back out right at the end. Marx was many things, and thought that indulging the both of them was greatly deserved before the holiday season, but he had some pride. And dignity. And a mighty fear of all things lacy, especially how his skin would look with such a light colour. Muscle in his jaw jumping at the thought of just how horribly pale he was in comparison to Ryouma, he almost wished he had bought something red, or black. Marx quite fancied Ryouma in black, he decided.

“There you are!”

Looking up, Marx sees Ryouma slip through the crowd towards him, smiling for the both of them. As Marx pushes himself up to stand, he notes how the underwear was definitely creeping higher than it should’ve, and grimaces. Ryouma notices, because he never missed a thing, and has a hand on Marx in seconds. “Are you alright?”

No, Marx wanted to say. I’m wearing ridiculous underwear underneath my suit to impress you, I’m not alright. “Fine,” he sighs, a hand on Ryouma’s shoulder. Slips down the arm of his own suit to the curve of his elbow, and leads him towards the restaurant. “An early morning, so I’m afraid I’m a little tired.”

“You didn’t sleep after?”

“Unlike a certain someone, I do not have the ability to sleep anywhere,” Marx comments, raising his brow as Ryouma grins unabashedly.

“It’s a gift, I know.”

“Hardly. You will injure yourself one day.”

Casually, Ryouma waves away Marx’s concerns, and shifts his arm to encourage Marx to loop his through. Despite the bite in the back of his head about Ryouma being far to cavalier, Marx lets it go. Something about the man was unnaturally calming, like he was far too charismatic for his own good. Probably how without even saying anything, he had managed to convince Marx to wear ‘sexy’ lingerie under his best suit. Just the thought has Marx flush again, and he’s sure he can feel the bodice slip a fraction. He should have left that to put on in the room. He should have done a lot of things.

Ryouma is always one step ahead, tucking in Marx’s chair underneath him before making his way around the table. How gentlemanly, Marx notes. Somewhere around their fourth and fifth date, Ryouma was decidedly more pointed in his actions. Uncommon for him to deny opening a door now, and Marx wasn’t sure where that had actually come from. Not that he minded, but it didn’t stop him raising a brow each time. Perhaps it was Ryouma’s attempt to impress him (as if he didn’t realise that Marx was far from needing to be impressed at this point).

As the waiter comes over, Marx takes a moment to choose, already knowing that Ryouma was going to order. His treat tonight, he insisted, and Ryouma makes a face about that. Whatever, Marx decides, he wasn’t going to linger on Ryouma looking mopey across the table. Wasn’t going to focus on how Ryouma drew out each letter of his name as he reached across to grasp his hand. No, he wasn’t going to relent to the man insisting on paying for everything. If Ryouma was feeling that generous, Marx might just bill him for the lingerie later.

(Underwear, Marx corrects himself. Calling it lingerie was crossing a line he still wasn’t sure he wanted to cross. At least, not just yet)

“Make anyone cry today?”

Marx clicks his tongue at the comment, and carefully slices through his dinner. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Terrible. At least the day hasn’t ended yet.”

Whilst Ryouma laughs to himself merrily, Marx watches on. Part of him — a smaller more ambitious part — wanted to hurry the meal up and drag Ryouma upstairs. Have his way with the man who continued to run his mouth about his day at work, and how he didn’t manage to take a photo of the cute cat outside for Marx, and how he was late because his siblings insisted on holding him up. Marx listened to Ryouma waffle on, sure that it had crossed the point where Ryouma just enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and toed his shoe off.

Well then, they could wait for dessert, Marx decides, or he could run the tips of his toes along whatever Ryouma’s suit exposed around his ankle. Very rarely, Marx managed to get the jump on Ryouma (and every time he wished he had a camera). But watching Ryouma choke on his own words, and wave off the waiter’s assistance by _insisting_ that the water went down the wrong hole was worth it. 

“Sorry, what were you saying?” Resting chin in hand, Marx simply stared as Ryouma’s eyes dropped to the edge of the table. Thankfully, this place invested in table cloths, and there was very little to be seen. A saving grace for Ryouma perhaps, as he didn’t twitch away the second time Marx brushed his ankle. Such an odd boost for his ego, but Marx would take what he would get.

“Dessert, or should we go somewhere else? There’s a cafe down the road that looked quite nice.”

Ryouma’s expression fell at the suggestion of going anywhere but up, and Marx had to laugh. Calling the waiter over, he says simply to charge it to the room, eyes trained on Ryouma the entire time. He truly lit up at the realisation, and it was so hard to believe this man lead his company to such successes when he couldn’t understand when he was being seduced. So typical of him that such a thought had Marx smile the entire way to the elevator.

Inside, Marx was somewhat relieved they were not alone. A younger couple, leaning in to each other, utterly wrapped up in some other kind of bliss. Ryouma settled himself in the corner, hands on either side of the barriers wrapping the inside, and for one whole minute, Marx can just watch the man breathe. He was looking off somewhere else, over the heads of the other couple, face slightly turning into a frown despite the sheer delight on his face only seconds earlier. 

Settling his own hands either sides of Ryouma, pinning him to the corner, Marx leans his forehead in. Something in the air, he thinks, resting his forehead against Ryouma’s. Can feel the muscles move as Ryouma raises a brow. “Trying to seduce me, Marx?”

With a short laugh, Marx presses his lips quickly against Ryouma’s. “Is it working?”

“ _Yes_.”

They don’t see the other couple leave. Maybe it was a good thing, as Marx was too wrapped up in simply kissing Ryouma. Nothing deep, nothing heavy. Their floor was only moments away and the elevator was made of glass but Ryouma’s lips were soft and Marx was a passionate man. Where alcohol made Ryouma a looser man, Marx was sure it was something a little more conflicted in him that made him ignore all sense. Presses his hands against the glass either side of Ryouma’s head and leans in further, edging him back over the railing.

It’s not until Marx notes they are going down that he finally leans back. Ryouma is wide-eyed and pink in the face, all good things when they mash the buttons a few times to go back up. “Normally you’re a bit—”

Marx interrupts, making a noise in the back of his throat. He knew how he was. But he figured a grace period could be given, especially over such a season. Publicly displaying his affection was not something Marx felt necessary. Maybe the other couple infected him a little, so wrapped up in each other. There are no words he could give to explain that he, perhaps, simply wanted to, and instead links his fingers with Ryouma’s.

The walk to the room is slower than Marx likes. As if the hallway seemed much longer than usual, and his key not quite swiping through the first time. He’d hardly had a drink at dinner, and thinks _nerves,_ like everything was coming together. Worries return, that it was too early, that Ryouma wouldn’t like it, yet he flicks on the lights and kicks off his shoes. Ryouma goes for the complimentary services provided without hesitation whilst Marx just _stops._ Fingers pulling at his shirt as he watches Ryouma make himself comfortable in the middle of the bed, suit bunching up around under his arms.

“Excuse me for a moment.”

Not waiting for a response, Marx finds the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. Locks it just to be safe, before he tears at his own suit, throwing it on the ground as he removes each piece. Such an effort, and he’s heaving as he’s standing in front of the mirror, fingers hovering over the lacy bodice. At his hips, the bows now looked a lot sadder than what they had before he put his suit on that morning, but Marx doesn’t mind. Ryouma wouldn’t mind either, surely, especially not when they got going. A flush spreads down Marx’s chest as he stares at himself in the mirror, now tracing along the edges, just barely touching his own skin. 

“Marx, you alright in there?”

Stepping out of his shoes, Marx toes his suit to the side and takes a deep breath. Spies a gown hanging on the back of the door and quickly shrugs it on, hiding himself away. That in itself gave him a little more confidence to walk closer to the door. Now or never. A small promise leaves him to never let Ryouma lead him on again, as he edges it slightly open. 

Ryouma had returned to hovering at the end of the bed, and at the sound of the bathroom opening, he had turned. Marx holds the collar of the gown with one hand as he walks into the room, noting the low lighting and champagne already on ice, and how Ryouma had loosened his own tie. “Please sit down,” he says, thankful his voice didn’t jump. 

Doing as he was asked, Ryouma has his hands on his knees, and Marx simply watches his eyebrows raise, as he looks Marx over. The little stockings that came with the attire were obvious under the gown, but didn’t give what he was wearing away. “Marx…?” Ryouma only trails off, a sentence not forming as his eyes keep flicking down. Marx could only imagine what he was thinking, and it filled his belly with so much warmth.

Slowly, Marx shrugs the gown off. Hands help to pull it down, but he exposes his shoulders first, the curve of his collarbone. Bunching at his elbows and Marx looks up to see Ryouma still for the first time, mouth the only moving thing on him (gaping even, just like in the movies). If he was going to say something, he couldn’t find words. Lacking in them so much when the gown finally hit the floor — with Marx unable to help a hand covering his groin as his cock sat half hard in the little strip of underwear — Ryouma could only manage a very loud groan.

A very pleasing thing to hear, if Marx said so himself. Definitely gave him a boost of confidence, as he stepped closer, out of the gown entirely. Ryouma still couldn’t manage much beyond Marx’s name and ‘Gods’, to the point where both words were melding into the one. That was very okay with Marx, as he reached a hand out, running his fingers through Ryouma’s hair, before holding firm. Lowering himself, so that both of his knees sat either side of Ryouma’s thighs (just like he had practiced mentally for the last week), Marx smiled. “Merry Christmas.” It was cheesy, but he could’ve been cheesier. 

“Oh gods, you are too good to me.” Ryouma’s eyes practically roll into the back of his head, as he flops back on the bed, hands immediately flying to his face. There’s a muffle, and it must be his mother tongue, as Marx misses it entirely. Yet he follows, hands landing either side of Ryouma, holding himself up. Just barely, the bodice gapes at his chest, and Ryouma looks once before falling back again. “Gods, _Marx_!”

“I’m starting to believe my name may be something else,” Marx slides in, smile turning up at the corner as Ryouma finally lets his hands fall to the side, now staring up at Marx uninterrupted.

“You’re going to make me cry.”

“I said it was still early,” Marx commented, referring to their earlier dinner conversation. 

Ryouma grins so wide, Marx fears his face may crack. Hands rest at his hips, tugging at the bows so gently Marx almost doesn’t notice the insistent fingers. One day, that impatience would severely impact Ryouma in something, but it has him pressing up against Marx right now, cock hard in his pants. Perhaps one day Ryouma would be embarrassed that he was so _easy_ , but Marx had to take pleasure in the fact that he was the one who caused such a reaction. 

Their hips meet in a slow and steady rhythm. Truly, Marx had not quite thought beyond the ‘big reveal’, even if he had a very good idea of what _would_ happen. That was a given (although he had to wonder what the reaction would be if he simply walked away). It was just all the technicalities that would follow. Except Ryouma is loosening the belt of his pants and insistently shoving them down as far as he could. Marx’s fingers find buttons, undoing as many as he could blindly while they kissed. 

Messy and sloppy. Perhaps, secretly, Marx’s favourite way. Ryouma holds Marx’s face in both hands, when he was satisfied with his pants around his knees, and Marx doesn’t quite remember how to breathe. Secretly a favourite thing too — Marx would worry about how that reflected on him as a person later, as right now he was preoccupied with his legs around Ryouma’s waist, and the adventurous hands pulling the bodice down his middle. 

Ryouma is hot and heavy in his hands. Already dripping and expectant and _needy_ , so damn needy, grinding in whatever way gives him friction. Almost hard to believe the man was older, thus more ‘experienced’, when he was pleading in Marx’s ear, let me touch you, let me fuck you. The kind of things that kept Marx up at night, hands shoved into his pants like he was a hormonal teenager all over again. Lips accompany the words, outright begging for some sort of release. 

Marx wanted to comment that it had only been mere minutes since he had clambered on top. Wanted to hold Ryouma’s head back, gripping his hair even, and make him ask loudly for it. Get kicked out of their hotel room for being too noisy. But Marx wasn’t that person (not just yet), and he chuckles, rolling off of Ryouma. Slaps hands that follow him to the jacket that was dropped beside the bed. Marx _nearly_ gives in, as Ryouma mouths the dip of his back, lips moving further south. But he was far stronger than Ryouma gave him credit for, sometimes, and fishes out exactly what he wanted before turning over.

“Lay back,” Marx orders, not at all waiting for Ryouma to respond. 

And yet, “wait, _what_?!”

“You heard me.”

“Aren’t I going to do—” Ryouma makes a vague hand gesture to Marx’s lower body, and Marx has to give him some credit for trying.

“No.”

“But you’re in _that_.”

“Ryouma,” Marx starts, getting very close now, until their noses were just barely apart, “I am going to fuck you in this skimpy outfit so hard, every damn floor will know my name by the end of it.”

Marx watches Ryouma’s face, how he dissects the sentence for half a minute, before it dawns on him. Eyes practically roll to the back of his head, and Marx may or may not have had to steady the man before he toppled over the edge of the bed. Incredible that only a few words had such an effect on Ryouma. Feeling oddly pleased with himself, Marx popped the cap on the lube with one hand, the other guiding Ryouma to turn over. 

It was truly amazing how pliable Ryouma was once thoroughly turned on. Marx did have to pause to check to see if the man had already come at that thought, slight dissatisfaction filling him as he realised Ryouma was close, but holding the base of his own cock as if it would help. Cheater. But he let himself be held down, cheek firmly against pillow as his bare ass hung in the air, waiting for Marx to make good on his word.

Gods, he even began to swing his ass a little, as if it might tempt Marx. And it did, so terribly. Marx would never admit it, but he always had quite a few moments in their time together, simply looking down at Ryouma’s behind. The things he would do.

Another time. Right now, he was one finger deep, curling it ever so slightly to get all kinds of reactions. “Don’t touch yourself,” he murmurs, swatting Ryouma’s hand away from his cock, and slides another finger in. That’d teach him for being impatient, Marx mused, lip curling up as when he began to scissor his fingers, Ryouma was this close to tearing a hole in the sheets. Getting there, slowly but surely.

“Another finger, or…?” Marx trails off, curling his fingers once more just as Ryouma turned to speak. Oops. 

“Jus’ _hurry_.” It was always such a wonder, hearing Ryouma slur, his accent starting to become more apparent the looser he got. Hah, Marx thinks, as he removes his fingers. Looser. (He’d keep that one to himself, of course)

Ryouma is squirming and complaining, as Marx slides on a condom and squeezes out a bit more lube. Looking at the man, not many people would figure him for the type. But Marx knew, and well, that gave him a certain edge where it mattered. “Marx,” Ryouma groans, pressing back as Marx rests the tip of his cock against Ryouma’s hole, “fuck’s sake, hurry!”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“Patience can kiss my— _ah!_ ” Ryouma moans, loudly and unabashedly, pressing back and taking Marx in deeper. 

Despite having a firm hold on Ryouma’s hips, Marx feels himself lose control far quicker than he would’ve liked. Maybe it was the fact that Ryouma was still in his suit, and Marx in lingerie. His own cock practically throbbed at that, as it was like every sort of sexual situation acted out from those ridiculous comics that he sometimes caught Ryouma reading. Marx would have to ask him much later if what he was saying in his mother tongue was like those lines in those comics. Later, though, when Marx ran out of words from the standard language to describe just how good it felt to plow Ryouma’s ass, and relied on his own tongue.

“ _Ryouma!_ ”

One name stood out at least, amongst all the pet names Marx had assigned Ryouma. It slipped out, despite Marx practically chewing his lower lip off, desperately focusing on how hard he was gripping Ryouma’s hips. Focus on everything other than Ryouma twitching around him, coming again (again?) and shouting enough that it may earn them a knock on the door. Marx almost wished it would happen. Cracking at the edges. Vision going a little whiter than it should.

Truly, he doesn’t remember how he ended up on his back, Ryouma on top, but Marx arches into the bed, thrusting up to meet Ryouma. The stockings offered little in the way of grip, and his feet continued to slip even as he tried to hold himself up. Marx would regret it later, if he made it to later. So much was happening later and he couldn’t even tell himself not to thin about it, as he was so singularly focused on how Ryouma grinned as he bounced, hand in his hair, leaning back on one hand. Breaking the no-touching rule so plainly and Marx had nothing in him to reprimand Ryouma, just watched in mixed awe and enthusiasm as Ryouma pumped himself.

This was where Ryouma proved himself to be the longer-lasting lover, his stamina driving Marx to often falling out of the bed, chugging at water bottles. His bones were already starting to feel like jelly, and the bodice had firmly found a home around his waist now. Wherever the underwear went, Marx would never know, as he came again.

Ryouma kisses him gently, moaning openly against Marx’s mouth as he does. Enough for now, with now being the operative word. Marx can feel himself be shifted and moved, gooey and messy and a firm grip on Ryouma, pulling him down to just _rest_ , for one whole minute.

Fingers pull at the lace of the bodice, dragging it as far up as it could go while Marx was firmly planted on the bed. “I still can’t believe you actually wore this.”

“Neither can I,” Marx mumbles, not at all concerned just how slack he felt and sounded as he spoke. “It was… _different_.”

“Maybe I should buy you some next time,” Ryouma is laughing, but Marx can tell just how serious he was. 

Opening an eye, Marx looks directly at Ryouma. “I want you wearing red lace next time,” he says, absolutely plainly and honestly, that Ryouma actually swallows, colour on his cheeks as if he was interested entirely. Oh dear, Marx thinks, what have I started now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao


	3. like something out of a teenage drama

They had arrived at the family house, further out from the city than Marx would like. But Elise seemed in better health, immediately flying to the stables the moment the car pulled up, so that was worth something in itself. Marx had simply followed their father into the house, as Leon had followed the youngest. Allegedly, Camilla was to arrive later in the day, off doing one thing or another, but that was the least of their concerns. 

Business partners would be visiting infrequently over the next few days, as it got slowly closer to Christmas. At least Garon was nearby this time to handle them in person, instead of leaning a little _too_ heavily on Marx (as far as rumours went, anyway). Marx handed off his luggage, took the first set of stairs to the study set aside for him, and sat down lest anyone suggest he wasn’t working hard enough. Garon would get the message soon enough, and Marx could ignore his private phone for a while. The best of both worlds for Marx, fingers flying across the keyboard of his laptop as he responded to several emails that _yes_ , Christmas was quite literally around the corner but, _no_ , it was unlikely construction would start until the new year.

It’s not until it’s closer to five that Marx finally stops, cracking and popping joints as he closes his laptop. This is why he preferred doing work in his bedroom, as embarrassing as it was to admit. At least it meant he was constantly moving, instead of behind a desk. Marx could feel every joint in him tell him that sitting for hours after the previous night was a horrid idea, and no matter how good he felt just thinking about Ryouma, it was not worth it.

Ah, that reminded him. He hadn’t told Ryouma he had arrived, and Marx notes how his phone was flashing a little too much to just be a friend wishing him a good Christmas. Sliding the screen open, Marx smiles at the name. Honestly, he was falling a little faster than he truly wanted, but Ryouma wishing him a safe trip, and good luck, did something to his entire system that he wasn’t quite sure what it was. 

Marx misses the knock at the door, and isn’t fast enough to cover his smile as Camilla walks in, Elise in tow. “Marx, they’re about to start di— _oh?_ And what is that face for?” she asks, so sweetly that Marx is immediately on the defensive. 

“Nothing that concerns you.” Pocketing his phone very discreetly, Marx stands and moves, sisters in tow as he makes his way towards the dining room. Camilla was very transparent in her conversation, probing Marx’s little bubble with _was that the boytoy_ thrown around very casually, to the point where even Elise had to speak up.

“Why didn’t he join us for Christmas?” Elise asks, which just incites such a happy reaction from Camilla, Marx was sure he was going to fall over from the sheer embarrassment. 

“He was joining his own family for Christmas this year I believe.”

“A shame,” Camilla sighs, a little too dramatically for Marx’s tastes. “We could have finally met the man who wooed you.”

“ _Camilla!_ ”

She laughs, very loudly, as they finally make it to the dining room. At least their father and Leon had enough manners not to question what had been happening just prior, and Marx knows that the conversation had not ended. But Elise starts talking to Leon about her mare, and Garon asks how Camilla’s trip had been. Marx was able to settle back in his chair to at least enjoy a dinner together as a family, which had not happened in far too long of a time, and smiled.

It’s not until he’s walking out of the hall, a few steps behind Leon, that his phone buzzes again. They part at their respective rooms, Leon giving Marx a look that said far more than it should’ve. Marx was glad to see that his entire family was in on his relationship, and that they all had some sort of an opinion. Bidding Leon a good night, despite the time, Marx shuts his door, flicks the lock, and pulls his phone out.

Settling on his bed, Marx can forget about how intrusive his family could be at some of the worst times, as Ryouma smiles up at him. Wherever his family had gone to for the holiday, it was far sunnier than it was Vindam. 

> _enjoying the sun?_

_> > more i u were her 2_

One day, Marx would smack Ryouma over the head for his, quite frankly, offensive spelling when using a phone. It wasn’t like phones didn’t all have autocorrect these days as well, so there was truly no excuse for how he typed! Phone falling to the side, Marx pulls at his luggage, sliding the zip open easily and figures he should get settled in. Something to do as an excuse to be locked up in his room for the night. 

When he’s about a third of the way through hanging shirts, Marx notices it. Colour fills him immediately, as he pulls the lace from between two pressed shirts. Oh gods, he thinks, someone cleaned this and knew it was _his_. Marx was ruined, and he falls to his knees, face pressed into the side of his bed, comforter not very comforting as he thought of how to explain it to his father. He could imagine the expression already, probably slightly more constipated than when that one time Marx dropped in conversation that he was rather attracted to men and would be turning down the next marriage offer. Now his father would think that he truly was some other kind of sex fiend, and then, even at the age of twenty-seven, Marx would be forbidden from seeing Ryouma ever again. 

They might even write books about them, Marx realises. And it would all be Young Adult. They might even call him something like ‘Xander’, and Marx truly thinks he’s doomed for eternity.

_bzzt—_

Just when he thought Ryouma may have been able to distract himself long enough, he returned with another message. Could use a few more vowels to decipher the meaning, but the photo accompanied says it all. Ryouma smiling into the camera, holding up something that looked vaguely like a pineapple greets him, and Marx finds himself smiling despite the meltdown. Gods, he was so great. Snorting, as that was the only word Marx could honestly find in himself to describe Ryouma, he lets his face hit the comforter once more, grip on phone and bodice slackening, when he realises.

Not meaning to stand up so quickly, Marx honestly feels it in his bones, and he’s a little wobbly, but smooths out the bodice on the bed nonetheless. He was never good with taking photos (that was Ryouma’s job after all), but he tried his best. At least Ryouma should be able to make out what Marx was taking a photo of, and Marx was not waiting impatiently for a reply, not at all.

>> _MARX_

_> > BABE_

_> > U STILL HAVE IT???_

_> > i wana c u in that so bad holy shit_

Marx believes those to be eggplants that follow the text, and as he’s digging through the suitcase, determined to find the matching underwear, he notes the lack of stockings. Damn, he thinks. Must have left them behind. Hopefully, there would either be no questions asked when he went to pick them up, or someone threw them out. Either option suited Marx just fine, as he couldn’t find the underwear either.

> _I can’t find the underwear to go with the bodice_

_> That’s strange_

And it was. Marx lowers the lid of his suitcase, frowning as he wondered just where they had been thrown in the midst of everything, when his phone lights up with a photo. It had actually taken Ryouma a little longer than usual to respond, which was saying something, and Marx was almost expecting some sort of apology. 

He did not expect, _well_

>> _got htem here_

Ryouma’s dick was barely held up in the underwear. _Barely_ being the operative word, and Marx was fairly sure he let out some kind of embarrassed noise. He didn’t know what to say. How to respond. Why Ryouma always seemed to one up him to the point that Marx honestly didn’t mind, and just simply typed out Ryouma’s name all in capital letters, as if that would get his point across. Or something across. He was still trying to process the photo in front of him, and how that appeared to be the head of Ryouma’s cock peeking out, just a little. 

> _RYOUMA_

>> _luv u miss u xoxo g2g_

Marx lets himself fall to the floor, phone falling from hand. In the other, at some point he had grabbed the bodice again. Scrunched up in his fist, but still wearable. Sighing, Marx looks up at the ceiling once. And then realises what he had and didn’t have. 

Well, if Ryouma wanted to play at that game, Marx muses, removing his pants a little too hastily, so could he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY DONE  
> MERRY CHRISTMAS RYOUMARX!!!!!!


End file.
